


weep, or sing

by sombregods



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Dimitri Isn't Quite Feral Yet But He's Getting There, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-Remire Dimitri, sexy hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:27:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28194693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sombregods/pseuds/sombregods
Summary: “Boar—”“The more you call me that,” says Dimitri pleasantly, “the more I want to fuck you.”After Remire, Dimitri's worst (sexiest) instincts take over.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 8
Kudos: 103
Collections: 2020 Dimilix Exchange





	weep, or sing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sumaru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumaru/gifts).



Remire doesn’t change Dimitri. It awakens him to what he truly is. 

No one comments. Of the Blue Lions, Dedue is the most concerned; he wonders that Dimitri doesn’t sleep enough and offers him soothing teas and infusions, which Dimitri obediently drinks to no particular effect. Ingrid handles him with a deference he doesn’t deserve; Sylvain with an insolence he is scarcely any more worthy of. And Dimitri sinks and sinks, day by day, into a morass of hatred and bitterness that trails its dark tendrils into his bloodstream. 

When they spar, Felix cuts through that abyss with a finely-honed blade. He is uncaring, uncompromising. For that, if for nothing else, Dimitri is thankful. 

In the months since they have come to the monastery, Felix has looked to him with a mixture of contempt and fear. Dimitri has been at pains to allay that burden, but to no end: Felix is no longer his own, no longer the sweet, crybaby boy who clung to his every move, but a sharp, traumatized, deadly young man, as much a stranger to Dimitri as the one who looks at him in the mirror. Dimitri has lost him, as he has lost so many others before him. Dimitri, despite Dedue’s best efforts, despite Mercedes’ kind counsel, despite the Professor’s calm advice in times of need, remains unspeakably alone. He thinks he sees that same loneliness in Felix. 

Felix spars alone most mornings under a cold hazy cloud at sunup. Dimitri, who cannot sleep, hears him wake before the cry of dawn, hears the soft noises of his waking, the padding of his feet and the clinking of his sword. He rolls over in bed, his forehead pressed to the cool stone of their wall, and listens. That is Felix’s breath. That is Felix’s soft-suppressed yawn. That is Felix’s grunt as he pulls on his clothes. Dimitri imagines him with his hair down and falling over his shoulders. Dimitri imagines the lines of his muscles working under smooth skin: his arms, his shoulders, his strong thighs. He imagines the clasp of Felix’s thigh belt as it bites into his flesh, and closes his eyes. 

The unfortunate truth: Dimitri is no longer soft, and does not think of gentle things. When he hears those sounds in the cool morning air, he does not think of stroking his hands lightly down Felix’s toned arms, nor of pressing kisses to the sensitive, vulnerable back of Felix’s neck. 

He thinks of biting down. 

He thinks of bringing blood to the surface, seeing it bloom—seeing the surface of his skin blacken, so much crimson under that bruised flesh. He leaves an imprint. He leaves a mark, relentless and red and in the shape of his own teeth. He pushes Felix back down into his bedclothes, face first into the pillow, and watches him moan, and watches him fiercely struggle, and watches him swear and pant and finally, sweetly, give in, yield to Dimitri’s greater force. 

Felix leaves with no by-your-leave, only the slamming of the door. Dimitri bites his lip. His cock is achingly hard. His body trembles on the edge of something dangerous and sure which he is afraid of and yet welcomes all the more. 

.

The Professor pairs them on their next outing: a skirmish with bandits, nothing they haven’t seen before. And yet that turns ill before the day is out. One of the bandits carries a cursed blade and draws blood from Felix before Felix cuts him down, merciless, ruthless. Dimitri sees it happen and is upon him in a breath. 

He clasps Felix’s arm in his gauntleted hand, and pushes him hard against a tree. The branches fall around them and swallow them out of sight. 

“What the _fuck,”_ says Felix. His eyes are immense, wounded. He stares at Dimitri, fast on the edge of offense. He looks about to hack him down: his hand tightens on the pommel of his sword.

“You’re reckless, Felix,” says Dimitri. His voice is in a growl. He can barely recognize himself. Blood stains Felix’s sleeve, blooms over the white linen of his shirt. Dimitri is fascinated, drawn-in.

“Are you insane,” says Felix, flat. “Let go of me.”

“No,” says Dimitri. 

“ _Boar—_ ”

“The more you call me that,” says Dimitri pleasantly, “the more I want to fuck you.”

Felix’s head snaps up. His eyes are very wide. They are all alone in the world. The rest of their unit fights on elsewhere: Sylvain’s whoops of glory echo above the ruined village and the shattering sounds of Annette’s spells tear through the rapidly darkening sky. Felix’s breath comes out white in the cold. Then his lips curl in a sneer.

“You really are an animal,” he says, leaning close to Dimitri, speaking in his ear. “You think I would let you?”

When Dimitri’s metal hand tightens on his arm to the point of what must be abject, abject pain, he hisses between his teeth. But continues: “I wouldn’t fuck a boar like you if you _paid me_.”

“I know,” Dimitri whispers. But he would be a fool not to see the sickened smile on Felix’s lips. He would be a fool not to feel, pressed up against his body, Felix’s body, answering and responding to his. Felix is disgusted, horrified, and deeply, wretchedly turned on. 

When Dimitri strokes his gauntleted hand up to his shoulder, Felix shudders and sets his teeth and glares. When Dimitri’s fingers close down around his throat, Felix doesn’t back down, not an inch. 

“Fuck you,” he says, white to the lips. “Are you so far gone, boar? Is this what gets you off?” His mouth is sneering, his eyes are hurt. 

The hand that isn’t his sword-hand grasps Dimitri at the groin. Under his clever, clever fingers, Dimitri’s cock pulses and pulses. 

Dimitri groans, low-throated and deep. His grip around Felix’s throat tightens, irrevocably. His hips jerk forward, pressing against Felix, against the tree. 

“Ah—fuck,” Felix spits. “You’re sick. Come on. Do it. You want to.” His hand flexes. 

The last remnants of Dimitri’s sanity still hold him back. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he gasps. 

“Fucking _prove it_. You want this, come on, come on, take it. I’m not about to give it to you.”

When Dimitri lets go, Felix breaks into a hacking cough. He spits out blood and bile. Sadly, Dimitri shakes his head. “I know you think I’m a monster, Felix.” His fingers stroke Felix’s abused throat; Felix swallows, perceptibly, and tilts his head as though to allow him better access. 

Softly, Dimitri says, “I’m starting to think you’re right.”

Felix passes his hand over his mouth. “Boar,” he says, and Dimitri’s nostrils flare. He wants, ah: he wants to tear through Felix’s uniform and sink his teeth into his neck—into his chest—into the tender flesh of his perfect thighs. He wants to brusque Felix’s legs apart and make a path for himself inside of him. He wants to _fuck_ Felix, brutal and sure, right there against the tree, in the sight of all, until Felix breaks for him, and begs and begs and begs … 

“Boar,” Felix says again. “Look at me.”

Dimitri is aware that he is growling, under his breath. He masters himself. He blinks frost from his eyelashes. He becomes human again. 

“You want me.” Felix laughs, contemptuous and rude. “Seiros, you disgust me.” 

Dimitri has a hole in his head. When Felix is so callous, so malicious, it makes him want him all the more. He is still hard. He can still feel the vicious clench of Felix’s grip. 

“You’ll have to catch me first,” says Felix, and shoulders past him as he leaves the refuge of the tree. 

. 

Dimitri doesn’t stop watching; nor does he, after Felix’s taunting words, ignore their meaning. He feels insane, driven out of himself. Lust isn’t an emotion he’s used to: repression and self-denial have been his friends for the longer time. But Felix drives him mad. It takes little, very little to set him off—the smell of Felix’s sweat as they pass each other at the end of a long day, perhaps; the look of victorious triumph in Felix’s eyes when he accomplishes a rightful pass against a Knight of Seiros; sometimes nothing more than the vulnerable arch of his neck as he pins up his hair. Dimitri wants to wrap his hand against his nape and force him to kneel. He wants that smart mouth on his cock. He wants that sharp, lithe body underneath his, struggling for air. 

“Your Highness,” Dedue says. “Are you all right?”

“Perfectly,” Dimitri says. “Don’t concern yourself with me, Dedue.”

“It is my duty and my joy,” says Dedue, but he follows Dimitri’s gaze down to the training grounds, where Felix is presently hacking a training dummy to pieces. “Ah.”

The fear of being seen grips Dimitri by the throat. “He has excellent form.”

“That he does. Your Highness—”

“I am well, Dedue.” He regrets, afterwards, his cold voice and colder demeanor. Something of the charm that has lived in him throughout the last three years makes him add, “Forgive me, my friend. I am not myself today.”

Dedue merely bows. Down below, Felix is startled by the sound of their voices, and slowly turns, lifting an arm to shield himself from the waning light. His eyes find Dimitri’s in the sun. 

Dimitri bites down on dust. He would, if he could, lay Felix out in the red sand and bite red roses off of his skin. That need lives in him like an animal, the very boar Felix sees and loathes in him. Dimitri is afraid of it as much as he longs to satisfy it. 

.

Felix is not so afraid. Felix has already lost everything. And so it is Felix who comes up to him in the classroom as Dimitri, seated charmingly on a table, discusses battle tactics with the Professor and says, apropos of nothing, “Come spar with me, boar.”

The Professor lifts their eyebrows. Inside Dimitri, the _thing_ that twists and turns his insides coils a fraction tighter and propels him onward. He glances at the window, through which the last light of evening arrows bright splashes of reds and blues across the stone floor. “Now?”

“Now,” snarls Felix, and turns around and leaves. Dimitri looks helplessly at the Professor. 

“Go,” they say, shrugging in their usual noncommittal way, and Dimitri stumbles forward, drawn to Felix as though by a cord of silver and gold. Together they walk through the monastery in repose. It’s late; most people are in the dining-hall, or, perhaps, already in their rooms, taking a much-earned rest. Felix’s shoulders are rounded, his eyes look straight ahead. He refuses to glance at Dimitri. Dimitri has no such compunction. He looks. Felix’s profile is limned in the dying light. His eyelashes. His lips. His jaw. The baby fat of old has melted away; he is all sharp angles, accents. 

They reach the training grounds undisturbed by anyone. They too are empty, except for one of the urchins who hangs around the monastery, and who scrams when they take one look at Felix. Dimitri offers them a slight smile and a charming wave. When he turns back on the red sand, Felix looks revolted. 

“Do you think these kids will look kindly on you when they figure out who you really are?” he spits, and throws a lance at Dimitri. 

It is no training lance. It has been reinforced, with steel. Dimitri’s fingers close around it on reflex; he inspects it, puzzled. “No swords?”

“Not for you,” Felix says. “I want you at your best.”

Dimitri presents another charming smile. “You know I can break a wooden lance if I grip it too tight. You’re kind, Felix.”

“Seiros,” Felix swears, casting his eyes to the heavens, and then: “Fight me. Don’t hold back.”

Dimitri doesn’t. He never has, with Felix. It is a part of who they are: Felix detests him, and he takes every blow Dimitri gives him and then demands far more; Dimitri wants him, and he refuses to give Felix a fraction less than his whole strength. 

It is the same with them now. When Felix lunges, it is the work of a breath, of an instant, to parry the thrust and respond with one of his own. When Felix feints, Dimitri sees through it, or doesn’t, or only thinks that he does; and the sword glances off his side, searing and sure. Dimitri has reach with the lance, but Felix has swiftness. His blade strikes against Dimitri’s, a clanging sound that echoes like a bell. 

The sword forms Felix uses are limpid, liquid. He is excellent at what he does, at what he is: a swordsman. He trains relentlessly, until he is awash in sweat and imprudently exhausted. As a younger child, practicing, he was always more certain on foot and with a blade in hand than he ever was on horseback or with a bow. Nevertheless it is still and always a shock to see Felix, sweet boy, kill a man now, with such surety of purpose, without qualm or resentment. It is a shock to see him with blood on his hands. They have both changed for the worse. 

They dance around the training grounds, and red dust flies underfoot. Dimitri parries a particularly wicked thrust, spins on his heel to strike anew, and hears Felix’s laughter as he ducks off to the side. That laugh is more golden to Dimitri than all the coin in the kingdom of Faerghus. 

His breath comes short. Felix’s bun has come a little undone, and long black strands stick with sweat to the side of his neck. When he pulls back his arm to thrust his sword inward, his shoulders bunch in a particularly pleasing way. When his chest brushes against Dimitri’s, Dimitri can smell the scent of him, musky and sweet. They clash over again, blades striking, and their bodies are reactive and responsive, awakening to one another. It’s useless to deny it. Dimitri feels it in the way his blood sings. He sees it in the dilation of Felix’s pupils, the softness of his lips. 

Without breathing Felix sinks to a crouch, sweeps out his leg and takes Dimitri’s feet off of him. Before Dimitri can know it, he is stumbling; Felix’s knee gets him in the hip, and he sprawls backward, barely catching himself with a hand. In a moment Felix is on him, snarling. Breathless and blind Dimitri swings up, and the hilt of his lance snags Felix’s blade just quick enough to delay the blow meant for his head. Felix’s sword sinks in the red sand beside his ear. 

Felix stares down at him, breathing hard, both hands on the pommel of his sword. 

His hips come down hard on top of Dimitri’s, and Dimitri groans, full and loud and shocked. Felix’s lips are parted, his eyes huge as moons. He’s hard. They both are. Dimitri’s desire sings and throbs in his body, narrowing down into his groin, where Felix’s groin is pressed up against him. It’s unmistakable. It’s undeniable. 

“Felix,” Dimitri breathes, and reaches up for him. 

Felix bolts. 

.

Dimitri’s breath is acrid is in his throat. Before Felix is out the door he is on his feet, his lips lifting in an unfamiliar snarl, his heart beating a heady throb of possessiveness, of sheer and unadulterated need. Felix is already gone, but Dimitri takes it slow. He knows he will catch up. There are only so many places Felix can go: he knows he will not want to be seen. 

Thoughtful, smiling, Dimitri comes out of the training grounds. The monastery is nearly dark now. No one is about, except a Knight of Seiros directing themselves back to their resting quarters, and whom Dimitri greets with a gallant nod. Inside of him something kneads ungently at his ribcage. As he walks on, it expands. It stretches. It’s big, it’s needful, and what it wants is Felix. Felix’s naked and heated skin. Felix’s blown-wide eyes staring into his like twin universes. Felix’s sweet, sweet body resisting him, resisting and then accepting, yielding, breaking open—

There is a rhythm to his walk now, a slow and even prowl. He trails his fingers on the cool stone of the wall, and leaves marks, he imagines. Ahead of him Felix is somewhere, equally affected, equally desiring, and scared out of his damned wits. Dimitri licks his lips. If he could scent him—if he could mark him—like the very beast Felix says he is, he would. He would. 

He will. 

He turns into the cathedral. At this hour of the evening it is empty: the priests have finished their duties. The great stained glass windows accept the last of the light, but even that is fading fast. Dimitri’s footsteps echo on the mosaic floor. He knows Felix is here somewhere. Where else would he go? Only here can they be alone. There is no peace in Garreg Mach monastery, except here. 

“Felix,” he says, softly.

A rasp, a scuffle of feet. Dimitri turns his head. 

“Felix,” he repeats. “Felix … ”

A sliver of white behind a column. _Ah_ . Dimitri smiles. He reverses his steps, gently, silently. “I see you,” he murmurs. _Did you think you could hide from me? I would find you—anywhere, anywhere. Anywhere._ He stretches out his hand. The stone of the column is cool to the touch. 

Felix kicks him, hard, in the gut, and this time Dimitri doesn’t go sprawling—he grunts, forcibly, and grabs at Felix’s leg and brings them both down together. They grapple, panting, tasting salt and silver. Felix is strong, and he doesn’t hesitate to smash Dimitri’s back into the stone, to hit unseeing at his face in the half moment before Dimitri ducks aside. But Dimitri is stronger. This has never been less than a truth. Felix must know it: Felix’s fight is relentless but useless. If he wanted to escape Dimitri, he would have gone to the public spaces of the monastery, where the crowd might protect him.

Felix’s hair is in his mouth. And at last Felix yields. When Dimitri pushes him down he struggles, once, twice, and then, abruptly, breaks: lets his face be pressed against the cold floor and pants breathlessly, open-mouthed, pupils wide. Dimitri’s fingers trail down his face, tracing the line of his cheekbone and his jaw, and Felix’s eyes flinch shut. 

"Felix," Dimitri breathes, awe-struck. He has never seen his friend like this. This is not defeat, no; this is what Felix cannot give up without feeling that he is lost. Felix must be lost before he can give himself up … 

Dimitri’s hand closes around his neck, and he pulls him up, backward, torso twisted, to press his lips to his. 

Felix gasps, a shrill sound, and his fingers rest on Dimitri’s arms as his mouth moves, awkwardly enough, underneath his own. His tongue snakes out, brushes Dimitri’s teeth, and Dimitri, with a groan of half-pain, half-lust, bites down recklessly. Felix flinches again. Swears. Trembles underneath him. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” says Dimitri, stroking his hands down Felix’s sides to his hips, pressing open-mouthed kisses in his neck. “I would never hurt you.”

“Too late,” Felix rasps. 

Felix is like a bird in his hands, broken wings and all. He wants to fly away. He wants to burrow back into the warmth of Dimitri’s arms. 

Dimitri skims his fingers down Felix’s waist and lifts up his hips. Felix shudders, all over, and his body goes slack in a way that would be more suspicious if Dimitri wasn’t going out of his mind with want. Dimitri’s hands are at his belt, tearing through the worked leather, pulling its useless pieces from Felix’s body. Felix, eyes screwed shut, keeps himself lifted up with his arms twisted underneath him, resting his head against the crook of his elbows; but his thighs are shaking, and when Dimitri’s touch brushes the sensitive inside of them, he bites down on a curse. 

“Come on,” he grinds out. “Get _on_ with it. Boar. Are you not the beast after all? Can’t even get it up, can you?”

Dimitri growls and covers his body with his own. He is forcibly hard, and his cock pulses against Felix’s clothed ass in a way that makes them both shudder. His body, taller and broader than Felix’s, forces him to the floor. Felix grunts, pants, says: “Ahh—ah, boar, come on, why don’t you, _come on_ ,” and swallows audibly when Dimitri works at his neck with his _teeth._ Dimitri bites down, as he has longed to do, and Felix yells in pleasure. 

The bite mark, when Dimitri at last pulls back, and laves his tongue soothingly across it, is red and raised and hurtful. It is in the shape of his teeth. Blood accumulates underneath the bruised skin, which in one corner has broken, and droplets of it pearl outward, metallic-tasting on Dimitri’s tongue. Felix’s hair is all broken down, falling over his shoulders, and together they struggle to remove his outer waistcoat, to break open the buttons of his shirt. Then Dimitri makes to turn him around, hands firm on his arms, his torso, his hips. 

Felix’s thighs part and make way for him. Dimitri presses him down. Their arousals press deliriously hotly together, and they both groan so loudly it echoes across the cathedral grounds. 

“You too,” Felix bites, already rucking up Dimitri’s uniform jacket. Dimitri pins him with his hips and sits up. He strokes his hand lovingly down Felix’s cheek, down his neck, across his collarbone. 

Then he opens his jacket, buckle after buckle. Then he opens his pants. 

Felix’s lips part. His eyes dilate. 

For the first time in his life, Dimitri feels no guilt, no embarrassment, for the sheer size of himself. Felix looks _ravenous_. 

“Come now, Felix,” he says, on the edge of teasing, “have you never seen one before?” He is fairly certain he has been naked in Felix’s company, as children; but that was nothing like this. He offers up a quick prayer for those boys who knew nothing of what they would become. Felix’s hands are on his thighs, nails sinking and kneading unconsciously at Dimitri’s flesh. 

“You really are a beast,” is all Felix says, swallowing. 

Dimitri tilts his head. “Do you want it?”

“No, I don’t,” says Felix immediately. “But I don’t have a choice, do I?”

Dimitri says softly, “If that is what you want, you won’t.”

Felix’s eyelashes dip down. Then he looks up, and in his face is a defiance, a denial, a disobedience Dimitri knows well. Felix is sneering, contemptuous, rude in the face of everyone he meets. With Dimitri he is worse. He requires to be taught a lesson, and he _knows it_. 

“Very well,” Dimitri says, coldly. He fists his own cock—an unfamiliar gesture—never missing the way Felix’s gaze hungrily follows the movement, and brings it to Felix’s lips. 

Sinking into the wet soft heat of Felix’s mouth is like nothing he’s ever known before. Dimitri is untouched, a virgin prince. Felix scarcely seems to know what to do, either, but his hands are on Dimitri’s ass, pulling him in. He would never back down from a challenge. This lets Dimitri thrust gently against his tongue, his cockhead already leaking fluid. 

“Ah, goddess,” he moans, tilting his head back as Felix’s tongue flattens against a fatty vein on the underside of his cock. In this position he has all the leverage—Felix none. He could go all the way in, choke Felix with his dick. He could. He knows Felix would love him for that violence, if for nothing else in the world. 

He doesn’t. He slides in and out, prudently, swallowing thickly as the head of his dick slips in deeper than he had expected. Felix’s cheeks are blazing, and already tears are leaking from the corners of his eyes; Dimitri’s thumbs wipe them away. “Felix,” he murmurs. “Felix, Felix … ”

His cock twitches at the trace of teeth. He pants, stilling, staring down at his friend, who looks so vulnerable, like this, looks so tempting—

Felix’s impossibly strong hands shove him off then, brutally, and Dimitri grunts, taken entirely by surprise, cock bobbing. He’s too late to resist: Felix has him on his back and straddles him in one smooth movement, and then bows his head and swallows him again, swallows him all the way down his throat. 

Dimitri shouts his friend’s name. Felix pins him at the hips, closes his eyes, and opens up even deeper. He’s folded up like this, kneeling. His nose is buried in Dimitri’s pubic hair—his throat swallows convulsively around Dimitri’s cockhead—his fingers are tight on his thighs. More tears streak openly down his cheekbones. When Dimitri pushes up his hips, he moans, and the sound echoes all the way up Dimitri’s ribcage. When Dimitri wraps his hand around Felix’s neck, he feels himself there, full and big. 

_Ah, Saints_ , Dimitri thinks, and pushes Felix’s head down on his cock. 

Thighs parted, hands in Felix’s hair, he is wanton, debauched, debased. He hardly cares. He hardly cares that anyone could walk in and see them, flat on the floor between the praying pews. Only he cares for the sounds of Felix’s throat as he swallows around Dimitri’s cock, and the pinpricks of pain as his nails sink into Dimitri’s flesh. Felix cannot get it all into his mouth, but he _tries_. Oh, he tries and tries. 

“Enough,” Dimitri says at last, scarcely recognizing his own voice. It is hard-edged and silver, a lance spearing through the haze of his mind. “Enough. Felix. I want—”

Felix dislodges himself long enough to say, “I know what you want.” He sneers. “You won’t get it.”

Something in Dimitri’s chest protests at this; and yet he says, “Felix … let me.” 

“No.”

Felix rears up, hands flat on his chest. His eyes never leave Dimitri’s. He is a marvel, a mess. His waistcoat is long gone, his shirt _far_ gone—torn at the shoulder and falling over his left arm, the buttons ripped off and the fabric mangled—and his lips are red and swollen with the memory of Dimitri’s dick pushing through them. He works his palm across them. He slips fingers in his mouth, and Dimitri goes a little insane. 

“Felix!” He makes to straighten up, to reach out, and Felix throws him back down, effortlessly. The beast paces and paces. 

“Shut up,” Felix says. “I’m the one who—you don’t get to shove it in me dry, you fucking animal. I’m not going to let you _mount_ me.”

The words echo in Dimitri’s bloodstream until his eyes glaze over. It is what he wants. It is all he wants. But Felix laughs, disdainful, holding him down and working open his pants. He kicks them off, until he is naked from the waist down and almost naked from the waist up; nothing but that ruined shirt still covering part of his chest, tantalizing. Dimitri reaches up and tears it all off him. 

Then Felix is naked. And Dimitri is not—his pants are open and his dick is out, certainly, but every other item of clothing on him remains there: even his arm brace, even his gauntlets. Surely they hurt where he is gripping Felix’s bare thighs. Surely the fabric of his pants chafes against Felix’s skin. 

“I—ahh,” Felix groans, kneeling above him, and Dimitri comes back to himself to realize Felix has his hand working behind himself. Felix is (oh, Goddess, Saints)—Felix is working himself open, fingers up his ass, biting his lip, cheeks hot. When Dimitri fumbles to touch, Felix rides down the bucking of his hips and keeps him down without effort. “Nah,” he says, something of a smug smile tilting up his lips. “You don’t get to—ah, touch. I’m going to take that dick of yours. All of it. Fuck you.”

“I can hardly object,” says Dimitri humbly. His gauntlets flex on Felix’s thighs. 

“Mm,” Felix moans, and his arm moves behind him in a way so suggestive it makes Dimitri’s blood dance. He must have two—perhaps three—four?—fingers inside himself now. He would prepare himself thoroughly. And something in Dimitri tells him it isn’t the first time, nor the last. 

“How many times have you done this,” he murmurs, his eyes skating from Felix’s blazing cheeks to his heaving chest. His nipples are dark brown and perked in the cold air. “Touched yourself—opened yourself up—”

“ _Fuck_ you—”

“—thinking of me? Of my cock?” Bravery takes many forms. The animal in Dimitri bares its husks. 

“Enough times,” Felix groans, and Dimitri almost (almost) loses his grip on himself to flip them both over. To have Felix on his knees and take him from behind would give him the greatest pleasure. _Not yet,_ he murmurs to himself. _Not … yet._

At last, swallowing, Felix takes him in hand and strokes him, once then twice, fingers surprisingly light. Then holds himself up above him and, biting his lip, places the tip of Dimitri’s cock at his own entrance. Dimitri, holding himself up on his elbows, angles up for a kiss. He closes his eyes. He cannot look. Felix, sighing, leans down to press their mouths together—a brush, a feather of lips—and sinks down.

Felix is a virgin. Dimitri knows it. He has never taken anything inside himself but his own slim, strong fingers. The stretch must be immense. And yet, and yet: he sinks down on top of Dimitri’s cock, throwing his head back, groaning long and loud, in one steady and smooth glide _down_ , without hesitation, without pause, filling himself up and up and _up_ until, shaking, he is sitting on Dimitri’s hips, thighs spread and naked and shaking, and he has all of him, all of him. Deep inside. So deep, Dimitri thinks (going out of his mind with the sensations of it) that he might expect to see the bulge of himself in Felix’s _stomach_. 

Tight and hot. It’s unbelievably good. The contractions of Felix’s inside walls around his dick echo the pounding in Dimitri’s ribcage. It’s a long minute as Felix adjusts to the stretch inside him, a long minute before he starts to—move—to _ride_ Dimitri, Felix who is no horse-man, but whose hips move in the lewdest manner. He braces his hands on Dimitri’s chest, tilts his head back, makes a sound deep in his throat that drives Dimitri _insane_. 

“Felix,” he murmurs, gripping Felix’s hips. His gauntlets will leave marks, he is certain of it. They already do. 

He braces his legs. He thrusts upward, driving his cock deeper still, and earning himself a shocked gasp. “Ah, ah— _ahh_ ,” is all Felix can say, one hand on his stomach, the other gripping as a talon on Dimitri’s chest, on his left pectoral, over his heart that beats and beats. He tightens up all over, and Dimitri nearly shouts. They have no rhythm, no logic to their movements: they are grinding together, pushing violently against each other. Felix rocks his hips, sliding Dimitri’s cock in and out of himself, and sobs a little. His eyes fall shut. Tears are trickling out from the corners of them, slipping into his mouth. Dimitri longs to drink them. 

Instead he reaches up. Instead he lifts his hand, and, with the greatest gentleness, thumbs tears from Felix’s cheekbone. Felix, eyes glassy and dark with lust, then turns his head and leans his cheek against the cold black metal of Dimitri’s gauntlet. He stays there, panting. 

Somehow, it is that submissiveness that breaks Dimitri. Felix is not—Felix _should not—_

But has he not dreamed of this? Felix, abandoning himself to him at the last? 

With a grunt, a giant shove, he flips them both over, lays Felix out on his back and covers his body with his own. He barely even slips out of him, his cock catching at the lip of Felix’s ass. Felix’s eyes go very wide. His fingers grapple frantically at Dimitri’s shoulders. 

“Argh, _ah!_ _Boar—_ don’t you dare— _”_

Too late, too late—already Dimitri is pushing out of him, rests his flushed, swollen cock against Felix’s heaving stomach, and spreads his legs wide open. He pulls them up, folds Felix in two, lifts his ass off the cold floor. One thigh goes over his shoulder, and with lingering tenderness Dimitri kisses the sweet sensitive vulnerable skin there, and then, with a sudden smile, bites. Felix yells. 

But his ankle crooks, and he jerks Dimitri closer with a mighty pull of his infernally strong thigh. “Come on,” he pants, “damned _boar—_ come on, fuck me, _fuck me—”_

Dimitri growls, blinking sweat out of his eyes. And then he loses his grip on himself entirely. 

He fucks Felix as Felix has so long wanted to be fucked: fucks him into the ground, fucks him like an animal. Mounts him, and shoves his cock in him. All of it, every inch, stretching him wide. Swift, violent, brutal thrusts that punch the air out of Felix’s lungs, make him gasp and moan and tighten up all around Dimitri, painfully, abjectly, achingly. Beneath him, where Dimitri’s gauntlets grasp the mosaic floor of the cathedral, stone splinters and breaks. 

Dimitri is lost, lost—his face twisted up in a snarl, his voice coming out of him in a low roar. His body moves out of his control, and though underneath him Felix twists and shouts and moans, he cannot stop. Felix’s cries are taken up by the echoes of the cathedral, only answered by Dimitri’s growls, and the silence. 

It isn’t long before Felix seizes up, before his hands claw at Dimitri’s shoulders and his entire body shuts _down_. Dimitri feels him come, and the clamping of his ass around his cock almost triggers his own orgasm. Gasping, his heart thundering, he holds himself back, fucking Felix violently through it, wringing every shred of pleasure he can out of him. He feels every pulse, every frantic heartbeat. Felix yells and yells. It seems to go on forever. 

At last he comes down. His body slackens in Dimitri’s grip, loosens and melts. His head hangs back, his hair brushing the broken-up floor. Dimitri gathers him up in his arms, his aching, sore body trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm, his shaking arms around Dimitri’s shoulders. It is so unlike Felix to be like this—not soft (never that) but giving, accepting, _yielding_. Fragmented moans slip from his lips, and in them Dimitri thinks he hears: 

“Dim … itri …”

But it might just be a dream. 

The ache gathering behind Dimitri’s balls tightens up nonetheless, and shocked out of himself he bares his teeth against Felix’s neck and—

And fucks him till he comes, deep and deeper still. 

. 

Afterwards he takes off the gauntlets. 

He skims his calloused fingertips over the marks he has left on Felix’s body: the bite marks, the handprints, the black bruises where he has pressed his vulnerable skin too firmly into the flooring. Felix, eyes low-hooded, lets him. When Dimitri reaches down to brush their lips together, he lets him do that too. His mouth is swollen and tender, yet firmly he kisses back. His tongue snakes out to meet Dimitri’s, and there on the cold floor of a cold cathedral, in a cold night, they kiss and kiss. 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Dimilix Holiday Exchange, Lin! Your prompts were so vastly & overwhelmingly good I had difficulty choosing (courtship!!! rituals!!!!!) but it came down to madness & smut, in the end. I hope I managed to deliver on both the fucked-up front & the "but they're in luv" front. :D
> 
> Title is from Sylvia Plath's poem _I Thought I Could Not Be Hurt_.


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